Chapter 36

Chapter 36

"What is the matter?" Bridget asked, her voice shaking.

She looked so vulnerable. After he dropped her skirts, they fell awkwardly, crumbled up and uneven. Bridget's bodice was still pulled down, her breasts exposed. This should not have happened. He should have controlled himself.

Anthony forced his member into his trousers, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of his trousers. "This should never have happened," he said. "I am so sorry."

"Sorry?" she whispered.

"This was a mistake."

When he dared to look at her, Anthony found that her expression was bereft. Distressed. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"You are not supposed to love me!" he exclaimed. "How could you say something so awful?"

"Awful?" she cried.

Anthony shook his head. "This was meant to be a pretend courtship, a clever fa?ade to convince the ton that we loved one another. It was not supposed to be real!"

Bridget's breath hitched. "But I thought you loved me, too?"

A knot twisted in his chest at how heartbroken Bridget sounded and how much he hated himself for causing her such distress. Anastasia came to the forefront of his mind, and all the loss and guilt he felt swept over him so powerfully that his knees felt weak.

"No. Not at all."

"But—"

"We cannot be seen together," Anthony said. "I must go."

"Wait!"

He turned away, straightening his jacket as he went. Anthony still smelled Bridget's arousal and English lavender. Worse, he heard the frantic and light footfalls behind him.

"Anthony!" Bridget exclaimed. "Anthony, wait!"

He could not. Anthony kept walking, desperate to escape her. His stomach lurched, and he felt as though he might vomit. He had dishonored Bridget, just like he once had Lady Hastings. How could he have done something so irredeemably awful? How could he have made the same error once again? Anthony thought he had learned from his mistakes.

"Anthony!"

They reached the steps to the townhouse, and Anthony began to climb. No one else was outside, enjoying the quiet, but he could see the ton—laughing and dancing and drinking—just beyond the glass doors. Any lord or lady might turn at once and see the two of them.

"Anthony, please!"

He whirled around suddenly, and Bridget halted abruptly, stumbling on the steps and staring at him with wide eyes. She had tried to straighten her clothing. Her skirts fell to her ankles, and her bodice had been pulled over her breasts. But she still looked terribly disheveled. Anyone who looked at Bridget would have suspected at once that something untoward had occurred. No woman simply became that disorderly by happenstance.

"I think—I think you should compose yourself before rejoining the ton at the ball," Anthony said. "We must not let anyone know what has happened."

"I do not care if they know!" Bridget exclaimed.

Anthony clenched his jaw. "You do care! If anyone suspects what we have done, your reputation will be ruined! The ton will be merciless and gossip incessantly about you. You will disgraced!"

"So what?" Bridget asked. "What care do I have?"

"You should care! Do you know what happens to women who do what you just did?" He swept a wild hand toward the door. "You should not have even come after me! Anyone might look out here and see the both of us! They might expect the worst!"

"The worst?" Bridget laughed bitterly. "The worst will happen anyway!"

"What do you mean?"

"The Marquess of Thornton is going to propose to me tonight," Bridget said. "I will be forced to marry him."

"Were you hoping to ensnare me?" he asked with dawning dread. "You knew that I could not love another woman after Anastasia, and so—"

"No!" Bridget exclaimed, taking a step forward. "I simply wanted one pleasant night, one good experience with someone who adored me, before condemning myself to a loveless marriage with a man for whom I bear no affection!"

Anthony inhaled sharply through his teeth. Bridget looked stricken; it was obvious that his words had wounded her. He felt a spark of guilt for upsetting her. Anthony longed to take her into his arms once again and reassure her, but he could not. He must resist.

"I am sorry," he said tightly. "I tried to help you. I agreed to Lady Rose's plan. But I was not strong enough. Perhaps—perhaps—"

A burst of sound reached Anthony's ears, and he looked over his shoulder. The Marquess of Thornton had just opened the door with Lady Hastings on his arm. Anthony heard Bridget gasp. He had the impulsive thought that he ought to protect her somehow, shield her from the Marquess of Thornton's gaze, although Anthony knew the man must have already seen her.

"And what is this?" Lord Thornton asked. "My bride unaccompanied on the steps with you? Was humiliating me insufficient? You conspire to steal my bride, too."

"It is not what you think," Anthony said.

"Our paths simply happened to cross, my lord," Bridget added.

"A lie!" Lady Hastings exclaimed. "Do you see, my lord? It is just as I said. His Grace is unable to contain his impulse to deflower every young lady that he sees."

"That is slander," Anthony said. "Choose your next words wisely, my lady."

"I am no solicitor, but I believe that slander must be untrue. Not a word of what I am saying is false, as you well know." Lady Hastings narrowed her eyes and smiled thinly at Bridget. "I tried to warn you, but it seems that you did not take care as you should have."

"You lied to her," Anthony said. "I will not deny that I made errors with you, but they are not as egregious as you claim! I tried to defend your honor and protect you from your father's wrath!"

"Did you?" Lady Hastings asked. "We can see how wonderfully you did with that!"

Anthony clenched his jaw.

"Just because he was unable to persuade your father to see reason does not mean he refused to try," Bridget said. "Anthony is a good man!"

Anthony's breath caught in his throat.

"A good man?" Lord Thornton asked. "What good man deflowers an unmarried lady and one who is engaged to another man?"

Bridget's face paled.

"You are not yet engaged," Anthony said.

"It was to be announced tonight," the Marquess of Thornton said. "We would have been married soon after. Did Lady Bridget not inform you that it would be announced tonight?"

Anthony drew a sharp and shuddering breath. He had ruined everything, though. Anthony had persuaded this woman to love him, while he did not return her affections, and due to his own recklessness, he had just ruined her reputation. No man would have her now, except perhaps for Lord Thornton. Anthony felt a sense of loathing overcome him. He curled his hands into fists, and although he was not a violent man, he had a strong urge to insist upon a duel to restore Bridget's honor.

"Nothing happened," Anthony said through gritted teeth. "If you believe that something did, it is only because you are an insecure man and doubt in the virtue of an honest woman."

The Marquess of Thornton's face reddened. "How dare you speak so disrespectfully toward me?" he asked. "You may be the Duke of Hamilton, but Lady Bridget is my future wife. I shall dictate how she spends her time and who with."

"But she is not your wife yet!" Anthony declared. "Until she is, you have no right to her."

"Her father has already agreed that I do!" Lord Thornton snapped.

"Please, do not fight!" Bridget exclaimed, taking a step toward Lord Thornton and Lady Hastings. "We can settle this civilly!"

"Civilly?" Lady Hastings asked, laughing. "Do you expect that you can persuade His Grace to marry you and spare you the humiliation of this disgrace?"

"No," Bridget said softly. "I would never presume…"

Anthony looked at her, and his heart ached. "Bridget, I shall make certain that all is well. Nothing happened here tonight, and I will ensure that everyone knows it."

Lady Hastings suddenly lurched forward, pushing Bridget hard. The young woman stumbled and fell with an alarming crack! For Anthony, it felt as if the world had stopped. He froze, staring in mute horror, as Bridget toppled down the stairs, leaving a trail of blood streaming from her head. When she reached the final step, she lay there prone and bloodied.

He remembered finding Anastasia's broken body beneath the balcony, and that old terror rose within him. Anthony ran to Bridget's side and dropped to his knees beside her, barely aware of the whispers of the ton—when had they arrived?

Lady Hastings was shouting that she was not at fault. The Marquess of Thornton was furious and declaring that he had been insulted. Someone was asking for Bridget's parents.

"Bridget," Anthony breathed.

She was so pale, and the blood was a violent streak of color against her cheek. It seeped into her brown curls and over her soft shoulders and the exquisite gown.

"Bridget," he murmured. "You have to be all right. You have to live."

Footsteps pounded down the steps. "We have to stop the bleeding until the doctor arrives." Mr. Russell's voice cut through Anthony's detached panic. "Help me, Your Grace."

Anthony roughly removed his jacket, and Mr. Russell carefully raised Bridget's head, which still bled heavily. Bridget's eyes remained closed, but she moaned softly. Anthony felt a spark of hope, for she was still alive. Mr. Russell pressed the jacket against Bridget's head, and Anthony's stomach lurched at the sight of the blood soaking through the fabric.

"Is it bad?" he asked, barely able to force the words past his throat.

This was his fault. He had let his thoughts of Anastasia and his errors with Lady Hastings keep him from a potentially wonderful life with Bridget, and if he had not panicked and said he did not love her, that might not have argued. They might have avoided the confrontation on the stairs. Bridget might not have been pushed. Everything might have been so wonderful. He felt as though he might be crushed beneath the weight of his own guilt, and if Bridget died like Anastasia…

Anthony felt as though all the air had left his lungs. He took Bridget's hand in his own. Footsteps announced another presence, and Anthony snapped his head up to see the Marquess of Thorton, his face red and his eyes dark with anger.

"Well," Lord Thornton said, "you wanted her. You can have her, Your Grace. I do not want her anymore."

"And we do not want you here!" Mr. Russell snapped. "Do you believe that now is the time for your petty grievances?"

Petty grievances…

Anthony's gaze drifted to the steps, but Lady Hastings had fled. He furrowed his brow. For the first time, he wondered if Anastasia's death had not been an accident but instead something much worse. He took a deep breath.

Lord Thornton retreated, presumably chastised. Anthony swallowed hard. He had to know. He had to ask Lady Hastings if she had pushed Anastasia from that balcony, for it seemed too great of a coincidence that two women in his life had met their ends in such a similar manner.

But he would wait. He squeezed Bridget's hand. Anthony might still need answers, but those answers and his past would never again come before Lady Bridget. She was his future, whatever might happen.